Pretty Eyes
by Kiyla
Summary: A snapshot scene: Wolverine's point of view, post-fight, at the bar. He wrecks a little havoc and thinks a little about Rogue. Warning: Short.


Wolverine's Point Of View of that initial scene, post-fight, at the bar... Movie verse, obviously.  
  
--  
  
She had pretty eyes.  
  
That's what I remember thinking, when I sauntered into the bar and settled on the barstool.   
  
"I'll have a beer." Placing the cigar in my mouth, I glanced up, and it was then that I first saw her. She was staring out of the corner of her eyes, trying hard not to stare. Why? I don't really know. I continued to gaze at her with that guarded look that I had perfected - when was it? Was it months, years, or decades ago? It seemed like a long time -- for not nearly as long as I had wanted to. She was unsullied, a clean, youthful sapling in this forest of old, twisted, gnarled trees. In those few seconds of observing her, I thought, distractedly, that she had pretty eyes. Dark eyes, scared eyes: in that stupid forest-green cloak, with her dark hair concealed, face frightened, that's what I thought.  
  
She had pretty eyes.  
  
Then her gaze wavered; it broke, darted back to gaze out of the corner, before finally lowering, somewhat sheepishly.  
  
I gave her another second's glance, pondering what she was doing in a /bar/, before patting around for currency. It was different from what I was used to: but what was I used to? I couldn't remember -- or wouldn't. Why I had these moments of brief thoughts about the past eluded me: something from my past, I presume, poking up to hit me in the eye, to hit my brain and rotate the wheels.  
  
The bartender didn't like me. I could see it in the way he moved, the way he regarded me -- the way he semi-glared when he uncapped my beer. I didn't even take a sip, merely continued to reclusively stare down at the bar top.   
  
He returned with my change -- along with that glower -- and I tucked it away, blowing out another breath of that deep, ash-colored smoke.  
  
The television continued to blare, about the upcoming summit. I really didn't give a damn, at that time. In fact, the more I think about it, I still really don't give a damn about it.  
  
But then the word 'mutant' came up, and it captured my attention, forcing me to look up away from my beer, forcing me to watch, to listen, to actually concentrate rather than keep up my tough man image.  
  
She was watching me - staring, even. She turned, saw my attention; I gave her a regarding look. She backed down. A few more puffs on my cigar, and I remember smelling the foul stench of blood and sweat behind me, concentrated.  
  
A tap on the shoulder, and I shifted my head to stare out the corner of my eyes at the bald man and his wise friend.  
  
"You owe me some money," the bald man stated in a husky, whisky-roughened voice.  
  
The wiser man -- he had more hair, too, I noticed. And I approved, oddly enough. The more hair, the better... unless you're a mutant. Then, the more hair, the more dangerous, it seems. "Come on, Stu, let's not do this."  
  
"No man takes a beating like that without a mark to show for it." Stu was right, of course: and he knew it. It was in his stance, his face, his eyes.  
  
… even in his scent. He was afraid, all right: broke, afraid, desperate. I should have seen it coming. I really, really should have. I was a fool to let down my barrier -- it must have been /her/. If an innocent little girl like her could come in here, afraid as she was, and sit on a barstool without scampering away with her tail between her legs, it must be a safe place. My instincts told me that, even if my brain demanded that it wasn't true.  
  
"Come on, buddy, this ain't gonna be worth it." Well, his friend was persistent, I'll give him that. Turning my gaze back on the television, I ignored them... until Stu had the nerve to stride up, lean over, and whisper, baldfaced -- no pun intended -- "I know what you are."  
  
"You lost your money. You keep this up, and you'll lose somethin' else," I hissed, turning my head. I would have bared my teeth, but I long since had realized that that would just get me labeled as a freak. Even if he already had... Wouldn't do to decrease my image. I looked badassed. He wouldn't care to mess with me. I /knew/ it.  
  
"LOOK OUT!" /she/ shrieked. The sound of metal on metal preceded the comment, just barely, so I knew exactly what to do. Rising and whirling, I broke more than a few of those oh-so-precious shotglasses that that barkeep kept on cleaning, and bore down on the man. He deserved this, impudent beast of a man. I didn't say a word, just let loose those claws, middle slowly extending.  
  
Oh, it hurt like hell. The slower it was, the more painful it got: and this was painful. Not that I had not had more painful experiences: I had more painful experiences in my /dreams/. But it still hurt, and the pain fueled my anger. All appraising thoughts of her were set aside, as I bowed my head, just slightly, and watched the sucker fear for his life.  
  
Chuchk-chkn. The sound of a shotgun, and then the cold metal, brushing through my hair, against my neck. I turned my head.. oh, a bad move, Mister I-Don't-Like-You Barkeep. A very bad move. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.  
  
"Get out of my bar, freak."  
  
I turned to look at the man -- I was incensed. These puny.. humans.. dared to mess with /me/? With Wolverine? They had another thing coming.  
  
In a movement that defined exactly how fast I could be, I had my /other/ blades out -- they weren't nearly so painful, for some reason. The left hand was never as painful as the right.. -- and sliced the old man's shotgun in two. He shrunk back, fear and surprise written all over his lined face.  
  
I gave into the urge. I bared my teeth, and growled at them both. Oh, did that feel good. And with the blades out, I doubted that anyone thought of that more freakish.  
  
I turned to look at Stu -- his eyes were closed, mouth moving in a quiet prayer. A far corner in my mind, amused, contemplated when the last time he prayed was. Then to /her/ -- she was more scared than any of them, eyes as big as saucers, staring at me incredulously. I lost all respect for her then: she was just like the others, was my bitter thought. She thought of me as a freak and a.. /mutant/.  
  
Another level glare to the 'tender, and I resheathed the things, lowered my arms. I remember, vaguely, the given-in urge of shaking my jacket back in place; it scared the bartender to death. Giving one last glare to the girl, I stalked out, jaw set, every muscle a'twitching.  
  
And I thought that was the last of it. I really did.  
  
But you know what? Despite the ups and downs... I don't regret what happened afterwards. Not at all. But don't /tell/ anyone that, or... I'll be forced to kill you. 


End file.
